


i'm learning

by bloodrunsred



Series: just a little bit broken [1]
Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angry Morty Smith, Depressed Morty Smith, Episode: s03e08 Morty's Mind Blowers, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sad Morty Smith, morty is just like rick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-16
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2019-08-24 11:24:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16639067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodrunsred/pseuds/bloodrunsred
Summary: He wouldn't be like the Mortys who thought they were smart, or attractive, or worth something.He would be better than them. Better than he was.And he would be used because that was all Mortys were good for.





	i'm learning

**Author's Note:**

> idk whether this should be continued but its just a oneshot for now!! let me know if you enjoy it and if youd like to see more :)

_"You're so easy to replace, I don't know why I fucking both - why I even keep you, Morty!"_

The words were easier to ignore when they came from Rick when he was drunk; when he was so smashed he could barely walk right, when his words slurred and his eyes couldn't keep themselves open. Rick was a sloppy drunk, and of course his poisonous tongue got even sharper with every shot of whiskey he downed.

It was harder when Rick was sober - or, as sober as a Rick could be. When he hadn't been able to refill his flask and all the bottles in his ship were empty because they had been off-planet for so long. When Rick's portal gun was broken and the man was trying to fix it with trembling fingers as withdrawal ran its course. While Morty stood to the side, unsure as to what he could do.

It was nearly impossible either way, though. Rick was a genius, a mastermind. While not always honest, he loved dropping sorry truths on people and watching the chaos that unfolded after. He loved wearing people down to their bones, to their core, for reasons that Morty was always too stupid to understand. Why shouldn't he believe the smartest man in the universe - in some other universes as well - and how could he not believe the Rickest Rick?

Morty was awake. His clocked blinked bright green numbers that muddled themselves in his head because his eyes were fogged with the kind of tiredness one had because they hadn't slept in days. Of course, he wasn't without his reasons. Rick was always bursting into his room at random hours, always awake. The only time Morty ever saw him sleep was when Rick stumbled into his room, mumbling swears and threats along with praises and compliments before slumping over like he had been shot.

It was the only time Morty could sleep, after he had rolled his grandfather onto his side and covered him in a blanket. 

As his fingers twitched anxiously (and it didn't escape Morty's notice that his trigger finger was the one most affected) he thought some more about the better times with Rick. 

When Rick took him to get ice-cream, or when Rick took him to Blips n' Chitz as a reward for,  _"Doing so well with that last adventure, helping - being my little helper, Morty."_

But the good times were tinged with bad memories, of being shot at and battered by enemies that Rick had cultivated through his own arrogance and selfishness. Morty had tried to justify Rick's actions for so long, and had succeeded for a good while.

The planet that Rick blew up, laughing hysterically as he did? They were threatening war on Earth. Rick was defending it, Rick was helping everyone.

The Morty that Rick had punched in the Citadel, after the poor, dirty kid mistook him for his Rick? He had been carrying a knife on him anyways, he could have attacked Rick and then where would Morty be?

And he stopped for a moment there, wondering how Rick felt when he punched that Morty. Whether he felt bad that he broke the kid's jaw and skin, leaving blood bubbling in his mouth. Wondering if that punch wasn't even necessary, if it was Rick warning him to behave. Whether or not that Morty was a substitute for him and every time he bitched and moaned about adventures and how dangerous they were.

He never wanted Rick to look at him how he looked at that Morty.

Morty sat up slightly, reclining against his collection of pillows (he had started keeping spares for whenever Rick passed out in his room, after the third time it had happened), and pulled out his laptop.

He brushed his fingers over the tape on the camera, knowing that it wouldn't stop Rick or the government - after what Rick had done to the President, after what Morty had seen what the man had been capable of, he was paranoid - and laughed slightly at the picture it painted. A fourteen-year-old, battle worn and scarred to the point of paranoia. He still had a crooked grin on his face when he thought that maybe Rick did the same when he was younger.

Before the government couldn't get to him, before he grew out of his nightmares and became the person that no one could hurt.

Morty shook his head as he pulled up a website and turned down the glaring brightness of the computer screen. The chat-room was how he and some of the other Mortys he was friendly with were able to keep in touch. Most Mortys were online at the same time. Whether that was because they were basically the same person or just had very similar Ricks was another question.

Even Miami was online, Morty snorted. He stared at the risque profile picture that popped up when he opened a private chat with the blond. Miami was a special kind of Morty - mostly because he had a special kind of Rick. A Rick that  _cared._ It was an anomaly, a weakness, he had heard other Ricks and even their Mortys whisper.

But Miami Rick gave them no mind and continued to shower his Morty with gifts and extravagance. Morty would be lying if he said he wasn't jealous. Miami had explained in a past conversation that his Rick knew not to keep him up all night - at least, not in a boring way. Morty remembered that conversation vividly, remembered how his ears burned and his cheeks flushed.

He remembered studying his feelings towards Rick carefully, long after their messaging died down. He didn't know if the small butterflies in his stomach were because Rick was someone that he could genuinely fall in love with, or if it was just his subconscience realising he would never have a healthy, platonic relationship with the older man. What if he made it up because he was desperate for any sliver of affection from his grandfather? What if he needed to pretend there was a small connection there, so he could justify why he killed for Rick, why he listened to him.

It was funny, how Morty would never be able to know whether or not it was Rick that was the root of his problems.

He was snapped from his thoughts when a sudden sound came from his laptop. Ignoring the instincts that were shouting at him to drop the thing that beeped -  _"Morty, if it - if there's a beep it's a bomb. it's not fucking, not fucking rocket science!" -_ he opened the message from Miami.

 

**Miami: morty!! i saw you were online and i wanted to say hi :)**

 

**Morty: hey miami.**

 

**Miami: oh no, bby, whats wrong :((**

 

**Morty: its nothing, rlly. how are things with you??**

 

**Miami: alright. fr, why are you upset? did your rick do something. i swear u should steal his portal gun and come visit me, fuck him**

 

**Morty: you dont need to do that lmao**

 

**Morty: just thinking about some pretty heavy stuff**

 

**Miami: go to sleep**

 

**Morty: i tried, im only awake rn through habit and training**

 

**Miami: your not a dog, i swear i hate ricks sometimes**

 

**Morty: whatever i guess. theres not much i can do anyways**

 

**Morty: im just one morty in a line of replacements. who knows, maybe rick will actually end up getting me killed one day lol**

 

**Miami: morty dont say that**

 

**Morty: how come your rick is the one nice one?**

 

**Morty: its not fair lol, i wish my rick cared about me**

 

**Miami: morty im sorry**

**Miami: morty?**

 

**Miami: youre not alive for rick. i hope u know that. i care about u, you know. you are me after all.**

 

**Miami: i hope youre asleep rn**

Morty shut his laptop, feeling decidedly worse than before. He hadn't expected that he would confront his thoughts - especially not to his friend (and wasn't it sad that his friend was just another version of him?) - considering he was usually so good at pushing them back and ignoring them completely.

He stared at his door for a while, his eyes slowly filling with tears. He had cried enough in so many different places that he knew his eyes were glassy. Dead. He remembered sparing himself a glance after Mr. Jellybean had - had-

He had promised himself he wouldn't cry, but he had broken quickly when Rick ignored him, when Rick was going to make him stay and all Morty could think of was cold hands on him and a tongue licking his ear, his face, and there suddenly wasn't enough air in the room because what if Rick couldn't protect him in time, what if Rick didn't care enough to protect him-

He sat like that, tearful and afraid of every shadow that jumped or danced across the room. It couldn't have been fifteen minutes later that his door finally swung open and he let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. He knew immediately that Rick wasn't there to take him on an adventure. His walk was too slow and calculated, he didn't shout a half-assed excuse or turn the lights on.

Rick sat down at the end of the bed, acting as if he had no idea Morty was awake. Maybe he truly didn't - Rick was always different whenever he blacked out.

Morty could still remember the time Rick had burst into his room, stumbling but smiling all the way. He remembered how soft Rick looked, how kind he was being. Morty had acted indifferent of course (he was such a good learner, no matter what anyone said, because he was acting exactly like Rick); the last thing he wanted was Rick to make fun of him for showing his emotions so brazenly.

Even though it was okay for Rick to do so. As long as the man himself didn't remember, Morty mused.

The thing that stood out most about that time was how quickly Rick had switched from nice to plain cruel. Sadistic. Unhinged with a knife and murderous intent. Morty didn't like to think of what might have happened if Rick hadn't passed out, half slumped over the bed. He didn't like to think of the alternate dimensions where that kitchen knife was just a little bit sharper, or where Rick had stayed awake.

Rick turned to face him and Morty flinched a little bit. He might've been embarrassed if he wasn't positive that Rick would forget all of tonight (and wasn't it so selfish that he sometimes wished Rick would forget about him as easily as he could his drunken behaviours). He tried to relax as Rick crawled, uncoordinated, to kneel by Morty's chest, but it was hard with what seemed like a lifetime of trauma pounding at his skull.

"Hey - hey, Morty," Rick raised a lazy hand to pet at Morty's curls, "you sure are - you sure look pretty scared, you okay, buddy?"

Morty forced himself to frown and it almost scared him how utterly  _empty_ he felt. Usually he felt anger or worry or frustration - but all he could feel in that moment was apathy. Was this how Rick felt, he wondered, when he shot down aliens with families? When he destroyed good things?

Morty wouldn't mind feeling the same thing for the rest of his life.

"I'm-" He hesitated slightly, not sure what to say. So he settled on, "I'm fine, Rick."

Rick giggled and some emotion raced through Morty's body, gone before he could properly identify it.

"You're really, really fine, Mort?" Rick let his hand be pushed away, but he refused to be moved any further than that. Morty was standing, which was the last thing he wanted to do.

"Yeah, Rick," Morty sighed, giving up on trying to drag the scientist back to his own room and instead pushing the man to lie in Morty's bed. He didn't struggle much at that, throwing the bottle in his left hand across the room where it crashed into the wall and shattered. Morty stared at the liquid seeping into the carpet, and closed his eyes at Rick's uncontrollable giggles.

"Whoops," Rick grinned, showing off yellowing teeth and a wine-stained tongue. At least, Morty assumed it was wine - he had seen the same stains in his mom's mouth every time she opened it to yell at him for trying to pry the wine bottle from her numb hands. Morty succeeded a lot of the time with her; she passed out face down in her bed and her grip was slack enough for him to try and help.

She always smiled at him in the morning, as though that would take away her biting words and cruel taunts from the night before. Morty wished his mom wasn't so much like Rick (because Rick doesn't love him and if Rick couldn't love him, why would someone who was exactly like him be any different?).

Rick made a grabby-motion at Morty, almost like a child who was being denied a toy, or cookie. Morty smiled slightly at Rick, shaking his head and pulling the covers up until they covered most of his body. He scooped the shards up with bare fingers, the sting of the cuts barely there and dropped them in his rubbish bin. He draped a small cloth and some tissues over the sizeable stain, but he already knew that it was a lost cause (from his mother, from his sister, from Rick and even from his father once Beth kicked him out).

Rick was still pouting at him by the time he had finished his small task, surprising Morty. Rick usually would have passed out by this point. Morty knew what would happen if he actually did accept Rick's offer to share the bed. He would wake up bloody and bruised, Rick throttling him in his sleep. Or worse, Morty would be humiliated the next morning because he hugged Rick in his sleep or did anything disgustingly sentimental.

Morty curled up on his carpet, not even trying to tug one of his pillows away from Rick, not even bothering to go get another blanket from the cupboard. A stray shard of glass pressed into his cheek and he still didn't move as a small trickle of blood joined the red stain on his floor.

He knew that tonight was going to end up scrawled in a tiny yellow journal, the page stained with tears.

He was cold and lonely, afraid of being in the same room as Rick, but he knew that it was what he deserved. He swallowed a little bit of the vomit that came up when he thought of any of the poor creatures he had hurt or - or-

He couldn't wait to not feel anything. He couldn't wait to be like Rick.

 

* * *

 

 

_"You're too - too annoying, Morty! With a whiny, bitchy little voice like yours, Jesus, I think - I would off myself if I were you!"_

Morty knew better than to try and talk to Rick when he was in one of his moods. When Rick was trying to explain something, it was always better if Morty just kept his mouth shut about things he didn't quite get right. If Rick was making a drunken speech about how much better he was compared to Morty, it was always better to wait it out (even if the tears did fall sooner than he would have liked).

Rick was always so quick to cut him down, cut him off, it seemed like his pleasure. And, if he's looking through his memories correctly (which he doubted, with the fragments of memories floating around his brain that suggested something wasn't right), his toxic self seemed to agree. He didn't know if it made it better or worse, that deep down he knew what Rick thought and agreed with his insults, but he supposed it didn't matter.

He just needed to keep his mouth shut (and not because his voice was high and whiny and cracked too much, making him stutter and trip over every sentence).

That force of habit spread to other areas in his life as well.

The few instances where he was in school were overshadowed by his new instincts, his new way of life, his new normal. His teachers were lecturing; he stopped them where he didn't understand, they would just make fun of him or tease him like Rick did. 

If he needed his mom to tell him she loved him, he couldn't ask; she was probably too much like Rick to admit to her feelings if they even did exist. And they didn't, the toxic parts of his brain shouted over each other to be heard, she was probably a demon or a lie. She might not even be the real Beth! 

His paranoia was only fed and fueled by Rick and their adventures that became increasingly more violent and dangerous. He reminded himself of the main character of his dad's favourite show; the one who had been a soldier in Vietnam. The flashbacks, the habits, the nightmares, the silent panic attacks late at night. He wondered if he might become like the Shell Shocked Morty that he had met.

The C-137 pair had met that particular Morty after he ran away from his new Rick in the Citadel. He was panicking, surrounded by hundreds - thousands of the faces of people he had seen die, people he had seen tortured, people he had known, people he had _hurt._

Maybe most Morty's would end up like that, he hummed quietly as he locked himself in a bathroom stall. He was calm - or as calm as a Morty could be - and just glared at his hands that shook like volts of electicity were running up his arms. He had no reason to be scared, he reminded himself. He was at school. He tried to seperate  _that_ bathroom from the one he was in, but he was struggling. He just had to breathe and think, because no one would be able to get him. No one would be able to run their hands down his arms and up his shirt. He was totally and utterly-

He didn't notice the weathered hand reaching through the swirling portal in the tiled floor, before it wrapped around his wrist and yanked him down.

He fell down next to Rick, his entire body shaking now because this was how it happened in his dreams, he'd be in the bathroom and someone would grab him and he wouldn't be able to get away in time. There was another touch, a hand wrapping around his bicep, that caused Morty to curl in on himself and start pleading, useless words falling from his lips.

"Please, please, please,  _please,_ " he babbled as if it would make a difference, "I don't - I can't -  _please_ ," he needed to get away, what he needed was to be alone so he could pretend that monsters weren't out to get him. He could pretend that Rick was dead as much as it hurt him, so all the aliens wouldn't have a reason to chase him anymore so that he wasn't able to go anywhere that one would hurt him.

The hand left.

Morty had his hands clamped over his ears, his blunt nails biting into the sensitive skin of his scalp. He felt something warm trickle down his hands and he caught himself wondering if it was blood or the drool of - of-

He rocked back and forth in his fetal position for at least fifteen more minutes. Every minute that passed by without him being devoured or murdered or tortured or worse had him relaxing even further. When he finally took his hands down and looked up, he saw Rick standing there with an indiscernable expression on his face. It wasn't one that Morty had seen on Rick at all, but it did remind him of Jerry.

When his dad sat down and sorted out all the pieces to a puzzle, putting them in one by one and getting confused as to how he got it so horribly wrong. When his dad thought he had something figured out (the dishwasher, his kids, his marriage) and puzzling over how a detail slipped past him and his plans went out of control. His dad was an idiot through and through (something that Morty had surely inherited) so it was strange to see Rick acting so...

...So not like himself.

He stood and brushed himself off, bracing himself for the obligatory verbal abuse for wasting Rick's time and being such a little bitch about everything - after all, the universe was a crazy and chaotic place. Rick knew that and Morty should've learned that lesson a long time ago. He smiled hesitantly at his Rick like it would appeal to something humane in him and convince him to lay off the yelling for at least a little while.

Morty didn't want to know what he would do if someone hurt him even more when he was in such a bad place.

Whatever Morty did worked apparently, because Rick just took a deep swig from his flask and turned away without saying a word. Morty deflated out of something he couldn't quite name. Disappointment? Fear? Worthlessness?

He couldn't help but feel that he would rather be yelled at than ignored completely. He knew Rick did as well, and that's probably how he knew. Morty knew he was turning into a child version of Rick - a solider, a fighter, a criminal, a murderer, knew it as much as his mother did when she saw blood on his clothes and helped herself to an extra bottle of wine that night.

Rick was the center of attention. It was where he thrived, where he needed to be. Few Ricks didn't appreciate how being in the limelight made them feel, and C-137 was no different. He wanted to be head of the family. He wanted to be the centerpiece in everyone's life, make it so they couldn't live without him there to help them.

He made problems and whipped up the solution like it was a hardship to him. He ruined someones life, someones world and he could just abandon ship. There was nothing that held a Rick down. Morty wished that he (the Mortyest Morty, like he would ever be anything more than something of Rick's) would be someone that a Rick could care about or even try and be better for.

But, he wouldn't make the mistake of putting more value on himself then what was actually due. If he did that, any harsh word from Rick would knock him straight from his pedestal. Cocky Mortys were bad Mortys. Mortys who thought they mattered always got hurt in the end. 

At least if Morty died, he'd die knowing the truth about where he stood with Rick and what would happen after he (after Rick's shield) had been disposed of. He wouldn't spend his last moments looking for his Rick and expecting him to try and help him or save him. He had seen too many Mortys do that through the goggles Rick had made. He still had them under his bed after the family had forgotten about them completely.

He wouldn't be like the Mortys who thought they were smart, or attractive, or worth something.

He would be better than them. Better than he was.

And he would be used because that was all Mortys were good for.

 

* * *

 

 

As soon as they got home from their adventure (all they did was get rocks), Rick Sanchez went straight to his room. It was small, cramped but not overly so. His bed was thin and squeaky, and the ugly, egg shell coloured walls were covered in scribbles and drawings. Rick payed none of that any mind. He stood in the middle of the room and downed the rest of the liquid in his flask.

He shot a portal into the roof (to Morty's room because the kid was having a shower - the Rock People they had shot at ended up having blood), and jumped on his bed to reach it. Morty's room was boring. Plain. There were hidden elements to it, though, the stains on the floor, the bottle of whiskey Rick left in there so he would have a drink when he woke up hungover. 

He was looking for something else, though. 

The leather journal was small but weighty, hidden in the kid's sock drawer. Rick flipped through it, reading with a quirked brow. There were few things he allowed Morty to have without his interference; school, his family, friends... 

But he had never gone through the boy's journal. He had assumed it would be boring, just lovey-dovey stuff about Jessica and the occasional rant about how bad adventures were. With it in his hands, he knew differently. Each page documented every stage of his mind fracturing, of his heart breaking, of Rick ruining him beyond repair of normalacy. Rick dropped it back in the drawer where it landed with a heavy  _thump._

Rick grabbed the whiskey and jumped back down onto his bed.  

With fingers that were too calm for how he was feeling, how his heart and brain were racing, he pulled out a computer. He opened the forum he wanted to go to; the name of it failing to elicit the chuckle it normally did from the Rogue.

_'Ricks helping Ricks!'_

It was too chirpy and happy and boring for its own good. It was funny in a strange way; he had expected something hilarious and witty when he first visited the forum, but he had been wildly incorrect.

He scrolled though his feed, seeing a few things that caught his eye - time travel, invisibility, death.

He took a deep breath and began to type his question. 

_'I think I broke my Morty. How can I fix him?'_

When Rick after Rick commented about their experiences, why, how, when, with their Mortys, Rick had to close his laptop for a second to take a moment. Maybe this was what the Evil Morty was on about (because as Morty was, quiet, PTSD ridden and his morals quickly disappearing, Rick could see him becoming an Evil Morty all too easily), maybe this was why he had killed his Rick.

Ricks really were monsters.

He opened it back up a moment later, because he was still a Rick. Still a monster. The best thing to do for the kid would be to leave him, let Beth get him help. But Rick had always been driven by what he wanted, and so had all the others. He wouldn't let his Morty go for anything.

Not even for the kid himself.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> lemme know all your thoughts bby
> 
> tell me what you'd like to see happen with this series!!
> 
> click [HERE](https://xbloodrunsredx.tumblr.com/) for my tumblr!


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